Purgatory
by ATG-4835
Summary: People always asked what was under Pyramid Head's Helmet. A monster? A man? A Human Face? A hideous creature? The truth was, there was nothing beneath his helmet. There was nothing. Nothing you could rationalize with, or reason with, or sympathize with or understand. There was Nothing there. Every single ounce of rationality or logic was gone and it left Nothing behind.


_"And so it be that they who commit; who saithe impurity, who lay with two backed beasts, shall be cast into judgment. And so cast into the place of purgatory, for they cannot pass until verdict is given. So the judgment is given and sentencing swift. And he who delivers is of monstrous, and sin begets sin and you shall not leave."_

Silent Hill had its own music.

_Screeeeeech... Screeeeeeeeech. Screeeeeeeeeeee-ee-eeech._

The Otherworld was never silent. The machinery and cages swung here and there on chains to rusty to move without squealing out, shrill and sharp. The grinding in the distance, the clang of some sort of grate sliding. A valve turning somewhere below, rusted to a halt and unable to be forced further. The agonizing whine of something being sharpened. There was a patter of feet, or of not-feet, or of hands, or of not-hands. There was a thud of something moving, crawling, slithering, falling. The uneven stumble of a Lying Figure, unstable and uneven on an uneven ground. Blood. Dripping, always dripping. Drip. Drip. Goo, blackened and thick and congealed. Not blood, not anything. Otherworld Material falling onto the Otherworld floor.

There was the Screech of the Great Knife.

_Screeeeeeeeeeech._

Music.

The question had come before, to those few who dared saithe it aloud. A Blonde-haired man. A Sandy-haired girl. A Brown-haired man. A little girl, too young to know better.

What was under the Red Pyramid's helmet?

The question was always the same, every time, and it wasn't one to be answer by He. None of them would ever find out, none of them would ever learn the mystery, one of many in this town that went unanswered and untouched. The truth was not what they could comprehend. They couldn't understand and they couldn't process it.

Their time was short-lived in this Town.

In the distance there was a creature screaming in some horrible agony, a twisted, gutted cry of terror and pain and torture. the sound crescendoed for Him, the distance echoing it to the point of a blurred background sound. He heard it clear, and it rang about in the iron of his Helmet, sharp and sweet and disjointed in horror.

The figure stumbled into him, it's high-heeled shoes long since having lost the heels in the many open, wide grates and cracks of the Otherworld. It stumbled, the uniform and short dress clinging to its frame. A Woman. Or a Not-Woman. A Once-Woman. It was a thing now. An Orifice, a pleasure, a sin, a judgment. It was an It now. It's thin, well-shaped hips swayed slightly as it stumbled. Upon seeing him, it let out a noise, a shrill screech of warning. Her thighs looked inviting to him, salvation between them, and he needed it. An irrational rage consumed him and he dropped the Great Knife, reaching for her blindly in a way that knew where he was going. She tried to dodge. They always did, but he found her. He found her and he shoved her down to the grating beneath, sharp and rusted beyond the point of safe passage. The metal creaked and groaned beneath their combined weight as he pressed her down into it roughly.

There was kicking and struggling, inhuman, savage, and feral. An animal. That's all it was anymore. He was a Beast and she was a Beast, and he beat down onto bestially. The thin uniform of the Once-Woman's body was nothing to him and it ripped with barest effort. He gripped her thighs and in he went. The wet of the nurse was warm against his groin as her muscles squelched around his length. She was clawing and hissing and snarling.

Ooze dripped from her face; her mouthless, faceless face and pooled down her breasts. He gripped one, tightly, in hand, twisting it beneath his fingers. The Nurse's whines and whimpers began to grow, louder and louder and violently he raged his fingers over her nipples. They tore and ripped and bleed and his finger smeared the red over her mottled, veined skin, cold and lifeless and full of life as it kicked out at him. He shoved in harder, his length erect and full. Always, it always was. It could never be anything else and it drove him to a point he had long since reached. Insanity, Madness. He didn't have any recognition of boundaries anymore.

The Nurse was wailing something, voice muffled by a face with no mouth. He plunged in again, and again. Her muscles were lax and cold against him, but he was cold too and he didn't feel it. Her hole expanded and contracted as he drove himself into her, grunts and hoarse whines and gasps of a pleasureless pleasure. It was a sin, this act, and he felt reborn from it. His tongue, black and dripping with fluid, it could around the neck of the Not-Woman and it lapped at her skin, tightening until a being that needed no air was choking and writhing.

Her breasts were firm and hard in his hands, cold, and large and round and he felt furious at it, suddenly. He gripped tighter, blood and ooze flowing from the wound and he tore it off completely, a large gaping hole where he had ribbed the flesh from her torso. He roughly turned her over pulled her downwards and he fucked that hole too.

His seed spilled violently, surging from him as he finished pumping his hips and cock into the figure beneath him. Not a woman, Not an anything. An orifice, just like all the others, and he stood, tongue lolling back up into a helmet and a length that was still erect and needy and hungry for more. Always hungry. So hungry. Nothing would ever be enough. The ache, the frustration, the burning need and the rage from that need never couldn't ever stop. and he had passed the point where he would ever be able to stop either.

His robe fell over his cock, shielding it from view, and he left the bleeding, oozing, torn thing behind. Dead, re-dead, or broken, he didn't care. Used. It was useless to him now. He needed more. The next one was it. Every 'Next One' was the one that would save him from himself.

The Next One was a Lying Figure, it's body too mangled to have an orifice he could fuck into roughly. The Executioner made one. The blood trickled down his thighs and legs and inhuman feet beneath and he grunted in satisfaction. The out-of-order organs provided slick friction as he shoved in between them and fucked the figure brutally, bucking and grinding, tongue lapping at anything and everything. A cock, a hole, a mouth, a hand, it didn't matter. He finished soon and he left the figure laying on the ground, struggling and still making noises of agony. It slithered away, leaving a trail of his black seed and it's innards. A thing would track it by the trail later and consume it down and the Red Pyramid would fuck that thing someday too.

So it always was.

The next thing he found was a Dog thing, and he brutally took it between his thighs and had his way with it too. The Yelping pleased him, as only he could be pleased during those few moments of Take. The next was a Thing merged with the wall, a mutilated, person that wasn't a person. His helmet didn't allow his hips and cock to get close enough to make an opening, and he was left rutting into the air, erection straining and frantic for friction and the slick squelch of something around his body. Nothing and his grunts grew furious and rageful and hateful. He clawed at his own body, hands tearing at his flesh, gripping the Iron of the helmet and tugging until agony consumed him and he stumbled and staggered away, body wound and wired and needy.

He collapsed not far away, his own tongue sliding down and wrapping around his own cock. He slicked it over as he mutilated his body, hands ripping and scaling down his arms and torso and thighs, every bit of skin mangling and healing and mangling more. His tongue lapped and slid and tightened and it hurt and felt wonderful and he was tearing at his own tongue now too. Black dribbled out of everything and he saw with eyes he didn't have that his body was in shreds and it felt perfect. Salvation.

He came and then he was moving to find the Next One again. As he always did.

Valtiel was perched over his prey, the Nurse letting out moans with a not-there mouth and bucking and writhing in a way that The Executioner found satisfying. The God-that-Wasn't was dipping it's Faceless Face between her thighs, soft squelching noises as it sucked and nuzzled and satisfied the organs bellow in a way that the Red Pyramid would never do. The nurse was soaking it up, body twisting and keening noises coming from her not-there lips. Motions that were pleading for more and Valtiel was stroking itself quickly, smoothly, fluidly, head twitching and erratic and blurred from the tick.

The Red Pyramid tried to take position behind the God-that-Wasn't. Valtiel made a growling snarl and stole off into the distance, moving with a fluid grace that could only be holy. The Executioner made a roar at the denial and the nurse was trying to take to its feet, to escape from him, arousal gone.

He stared down with Not-There eyes. A body, lush and ready and willing and perfect. It's groin was wet and slick from the ooze of Valtiel's mouth and his own tongue slithered out to taste it. It felt like salvation and he took the Nurse's knees, throwing them open to allow him entrance.

People had always asked what was under Pyramid Head's Helmet. A monster? A man? A Human Face? A hideous creature? A Thing, like all the other faceless things in Silent Hill? A Deformed Beast like all the others in the Otherworld?

The truth was, there was nothing beneath his helmet. There was nothing. Nothing you could rationalize with, nothing you could reason with, or sympathize with or understand or care for, or try to pity. There was nothing to try to bargain with, or plead with. There was nothing there because The Red Pyramid was empty of any remains of humanity. Nothing to cling to to try to save yourself. Nothing left to try to comprehend. Every single ounce of rationality or logic or reason or madness was gone and it left Nothing behind.

It didn't matter what was under the mask, because it wouldn't save you. It wouldn't answer when you called to it, when you begged and pleaded and sobbed and wailed in terror as He took you again and again. It wouldn't save you when you were backed into a corner, the only thing between His cock and your body being a closing distance of air. It wouldn't stop you from being tortured in the way he was tortured; a pain that would never, ever end. It wouldn't protect you when you ran, trying to flee the judgment and sentence and sin He was dealing out all at once because you deserved it and so did He.

What was under Pyramid Head's Mask?

Nothing. There was Nothing.


End file.
